


A Consummation

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Happy Ending, Miscommunication, Older Man/Younger Woman, Physical Disability, Romance, Sexual Inexperience, Sexual Repression, Single POV, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Sansa has found more happiness than she dared hope for since she accepted a proposal from the notoriously dour and stern Admiral Stannis Baratheon, after her reputation had been ruined when she was caught alone in a library at a ball with a suitor. She has grown to love her husband, and his home of Storm's End. She even views the blustering winds and frequent rain with a kind of fondness, and finds herself enjoying the wild beauty of the moors far more than she ever did the glittering society events of her youth.And yet one aspect mars her joy, and clouds her days—for she and her husband have yet to consummate their marriage, and Sansa cannot help but think that she must be the one at fault in some way.





	A Consummation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the [Stannis x Sansa Christmas Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StannisxSansa_Christmas_Collection).
> 
> Also, I'm aware that the Victorians weren't actually totally sexually repressed, but it's a fun trope to write, especially for these two characters.
> 
> and if you want visuals, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/168903435177/sansa-has-found-more-happiness-than-she-dared-hope#notes)

 

 

Sansa could not have imagined this future for herself but two years ago, before the event that occurred at the first ball of the season in King's Landing had dashed her reputation to pieces. She had believed since she was young that she would marry the first son of a noble family, or perchance a son of the royal family itself, and spend her days in the luxurious surroundings of a King's Landing mansion, with trips to her husband's country seat, that she would occupy her time with little but leisure and regular visits to the local orphanage and almshouses. She would be a perfect wife for her husband—beautiful, dutiful, and accomplished in ladylike arts—and they would love each other dearly.

She had not imagined that in the end she would receive but two proposals, one from a wealthy man of industry who had been a close friend of her mother's during childhood, and the other from the notoriously dour and stern Admiral Stannis Baratheon, Lord of the island of Storm's End—a proposal that arrived ferried by her father's natural son who had served under him in the Navy. Sansa had shocked her mother and uncle, shocked all her relations except for Jon, and stunned society at large, by choosing to marry the much older Admiral Baratheon after only one meeting.

She still remembers the words of Jon's first letter about her husband. _He is not a man quick to smile_ , he had warned, but then the suitor who had lured her into the library on false pretences had been free with his smiles and it had masked only ill intentions. _Some have called Admiral Baratheon dour_ , Jon had continued, _even unpleasant, but I think him one of the best men I have ever met. He is dutiful, like father was, intelligent and kind in his own way. He has a ward of ten years, Shireen, who he treats with kindness and to whom he writes long letters each fortnight. His leg was injured in a battle some years ago and he walks with a slight limp and often assisted by a stick, but it does not cause him pain nor halt any of the usual activities. In fact_ , Jon had reported, _he often walks faster than me and I am forced to trot after him_. An image that had brought a rare smile to Sansa's face.

She has since found Jon's description of her husband to be correct. He is indeed not quick to smile, he is kind to dear Shireen, he is clever, as vigorous as a man half his age, and immensely dutiful. He can be stern, and harsh, but she has come to see that his expectations of others are fair.

The first few months of their marriage she had feared that she was only disappointing him, that he could tell that she was vain and silly and useless. She did not know how to run an estate, or indeed an island, like Storm's End, which kept far fewer staff than she imagined at first sight. She did not know how to dress for the bleak weather of her new home, indeed she had not owned a single pair of sturdy boots, nor a jacket that might withstand the lashing wind and rain, which had resulted in her husband raising his voice with her for the first time four months into their marriage when he had found her, rain-drenched and weary, wandering about the moors having gone out for a walk unprepared one morning, and had had to carry her back to the house. He had apologized for his conduct the next morning, and told her that he had asked his housekeeper to order her some more suitable clothes, as she had apologised in turn for not preparing well enough for her move to the island.

He had been worried about her, Shireen had explained to Sansa when they had sat together in the schoolroom a month later, sketching a still life alongside Shireen's tutor Missandei. Missandei had said that she had never seen him so worried as when he had dashed out to find her, nor had she heard him be quite so brusque to his good friend Dr Seaworth, an old Navy doctor who had moved into lodgings on Storm's End when his friend had retired from the Navy, demanding to know about Sansa's condition, and if the chill she had caught out on the moors might worsen.

The fever had indeed worsened and Sansa had become delirious. At some point she had found herself describing the events of her ruination to her husband as he sat beside her sick bed—of how Lord Hardyng had lured her into the library on false pretences and then japed about and tried to steal her slipper from her foot, fingers lifting her skirts and slipping around her bare ankle just at the moment when the door to the library opened to reveal eager onlookers whose gasps of surprise drew a crowd and who seemed to delight, Sansa could not help but think, in sharing a description of the scene they had happened upon with all and sundry—and begging her husband to forgive her for her reprehensible actions.

She still remembers the furious look that spread across her husband's face as she described that evening, that he had called Lord Hardyng a cur before apologising for his language, and then he had told her quite forcefully that she was not at fault, that he blamed Lord Hardyng entirely, as he was the male party in the room and should have known better to take great care with any appearance of impropriety.

They have not spoken of it again but he has been a measure softer with her since the fever, seeming to realise that there were parts of her new life that did not come naturally to her and that she required more guidance. She has found herself enjoying this new, schoolmasterly, side to her husband greatly, especially when it was combined with walks and trips across the island by his side, in her new practical walking attire and with him striding ahead with his stick in hand as if his leg had never been injured.

He has shown her the moors, taught her the paths she might take to find her way home from walks, and taken her to the cliffs to speak of some of the great storms he had seen in his youth, pointing out the ships on the horizon and their providence and likely destination, and taken her to meet the island fishermen who continue to fish in the manner of their forebears. He accompanied her to the island lighthouse to meet the lighthouse keeper and when they walked up its dizzying spiral staircase to view the mirrors at its top, Stannis had stood close behind her, one hand on her waist, as she stared out across the sea. They had visited the farm close to Storm's End Manor and he had introduced her to the farmer and his wife, who have become close friends since, and she had met a group of darling lambs and sheepdog puppies, one of which the farmer's wife had encouraged Sansa to take home as a pet and whom she has named Lady and trained so carefully that not even her husband might frown at its habits.

One night about two months ago he had seemed to be in an uncommonly good mood and had even taken her out for a walk to a nearby hill after dark in order to describe the constellations to her, talking of how they helped guide him while he was at sea, a rare reference to his life in the Navy. He had kissed her that night, overcome with some kind of emotion, and Sansa had thought that no evening might ever be so romantic.

She could not have imagined marrying a man like Admiral Baratheon but she is so thankful that she has, for he has been a most wonderful husband and she has found a rare happiness here alongside him at Storm's End; a happiness in every aspect bar one. For her marriage to her husband is yet unconsummated, though she has admitted this to no one for they have already been married a whole year. She is not too young; she believes she does not disappoint him entirely as a wife, as a mother-figure to Shireen; she is careful with her appearance—keeping her hair tidy and pinned, her nightly braid neat, her dresses neither frivolous nor plain—and she treats him with the courtesy and care a husband deserves. Thus she cannot find a reason why he has not shared her bed.

Is it her disgraced reputation still, that turns him away, even though to many men it would be thought of as an invitation? Perhaps he cannot bear to be with her because he believes her to be ruined, tarnished by another man’s touch? No, she cannot believe it is this, especially after that heartfelt conversation during her fever. 

She had thought that after that kiss under the stars, he might have warmed to her, and she had stayed up many nights after that, wearing her prettiest nightdress, thinking that he might enter her bedroom at any moment, but he never did, and so she stopped hoping.

His kisses are brief, light, and almost always on her forehead or cheek as a goodbye when he leaves for his travels or a goodnight if they have had a good day and he is in a relaxed mood. He takes her hand to help her over rocky ground when they walk together, or to help her up from sitting, he rests his hand on her back when he introduces her to others, or when they enter a new room together, and sometimes she imagines fancifully that she can feel the warmth of his palm through her dress and corset.

But there have been no touches beyond this, no signs that he would welcome anything more. If she was as immodest as society had believed her to be after that evening at the ball, she might make her own approaches, but she feels as blind as one of the newborn lambs she tends to sometimes on the farm, her legs unsteady, the way forward unclear. She would not wish to make an advance anyway, it would not endear her to him, she believes, he who values propriety above all else; and it would imply that she knew what was expected of her in the bedchamber, when in truth she does not entirely.

She might wonder if there was something wrong with her husband, that there was something about him that meant he could not get a child on any women, except for the presence of Shireen, whose parentage is still unclear but who is likely to be his natural daughter.

It is the question of children that prompts her to ask in the end, that urges her to cross the divide and speak of things yet unspoken, on a gloomy day near the end of November.

It is afternoon and the house is quiet, Shireen and Missandei have gone for a walk and Dr Seaworth is visiting some patients in town. She and Stannis are inside his study. She thought to approach him here as if this were just another meeting, another item on his list, rather than choose a more emotive location for the conversation, such as a walk or a picnic, or an evening alone in the drawing room.

“Our marriage is yet to be consummated,” she says, hoping by the words she uses not to seem flippant or young; but instead a mature, rational wife.

She will say her piece calmly and then leave him alone in his study so that he does not feel pestered. And yet, having spoken the first sentence, her heart is already in her throat, she already feels quite irrational and anguished, as if the worry and the hurt of the last year is seeping from her, despite her better efforts.

He stands up from his desk but he does not look at her, nor answer.

“Can you tell me if there is a reason why, is there something I have done wrong?” she presses.

He glances at her and shakes his head.

Why will he say nothing, why will he not touch her?

“Do you not wish for a child?” she asks, eyes gleaming with tears, trying not to appear as hurt as she feels.

He looks as if he wishes to shake his head again but she knows that whatever kind of man he is, he is not a liar. He dotes on Shireen and he wants an heir. It is her who must be somehow at fault, and if he does not tell her in what manner, then how can she improve herself, how can she smooth over this enmity between them?

He must see the distress on her face clearly because he turns away from her, hands behind his back, shoulders rising and falling with his own laboured breaths. She can see his own anguish even in his profile, illuminated by the cold light from outside.

He says, voice stumbling over the words, so very clearly ashamed that he cannot bear to look at her, “It is my leg, my injury. I cannot—the manner in which I might—it is difficult for me to do my duty in the bedchamber in the correct fashion—I cannot—” his words fail him, he heaves another breath. “Forgive me, I should not speak of such things—Forgive me,” he orders, he almost begs.

He waits there, without looking at her, as if he is an upset child that wishes he might be left alone. As if he thinks she will only run from him now. She has always known that he is injured and it has never coloured her opinion of him as a man, as the best kind of man. And now he has revealed the true meaning behind his reticence, his shame, why he shies away from her; that it is his injury that has caused him pain, not only in his body but in his opinion of himself.

She swallows and steels her nerves, “Is there no other way, no other—fashion?” she asks, tentatively.

“I shall not use you like a—like a—” she sees the knuckles of his hands go white as he clenches his fists, “I shall not use you thus! You are a lady, you should be respected.” And with that, he barrels out of the room without looking back.

He leaves Sansa there, baffled and lost; concerned above all that he is so troubled by this subject, and convinced that there is some way to help him.

All that day and the next she thinks of what he might have meant by his words, but her thoughts flounder. She has only a very rudimentary idea of what occurs in the bedchamber. Although, she thinks, walking past the farm the next afternoon, she has lived for quite some time alongside different animals—does he wish to take her like an animal takes their mate, is that it? But then she corrects herself, for surely his leg would pain him in that…fashion too.

He cannot put any pressure on his knee, she considers, or bend it fully, he finds it hard make certain motions…it is no use, she is utterly out of her depth, and no amount of untutored thought will give her the solution, will make her understand what he meant. She must ask someone else for help. She must risk the wrath of her profoundly private husband. It is Dr Seaworth she chooses to ask in the end, and not Missandei even though they share the same sex, for he is the closest to her husband and is a medical man who will understand the exact adaptations her husband’s leg might need.

After he has enlightened her, it takes her another few weeks to approach her husband, and she chooses the evening after a happy day, a Saturday in which they have had a gorgeous walk across the blustering hills with Shireen to collect holly and greenery to make wreaths, a rare sunny day in this last week before Christmas.

Most nights, they sit together in the drawing room, reading before the fire, or playing chess or a game of cards if Dr Seaworth or Missandei accompany them. But tonight she and Stannis are by themselves, sitting alongside one another on the same couch, and she has spent half an hour staring at her book without seeing any of the words before she picks up the courage to say, “The problem that we discussed last month, I have spoken to Dr Seaworth—”

“This is outrageous, how _dare_ you—” He pulls away from her as if to stand up and she reaches out a hand to touch his arm and stop him.

“It is my duty too,” she exclaims, clutching his arm in her weak grip. “You talk of duty so, but it is my duty too as your wife to soothe your hurts, to be your helpmeet in all things, to have your child. You would prevent me from doing this duty, you would hate me enough not to make me a mother?”

Her breath is short, tears are beading in her eyes as she begs him, “Do you not think I shall be a good mother, do you worry that because I am ruined I am not fit to mother your children? Why marry me at all then? So that I might be shut up here, alone and childless? I married you because I knew that you were dutiful above all else and I thought you might be kind; I did not, do not, expect your love but I did not expect that you might shun me and neglect me.”

She has stood up herself sometime during this speech, with the force of her words, and now she rests in front of the fire, heaving with anger and shame, her throat thick with unspilt tears, staring at him, this man, this husband of hers, to whom she has finally bared her soul, her fears.

He stares back at her, mouth open in shock, brow furrowed. His lips move as if to speak and then he shakes his head. They inch closer to one another, as if there is a string that ties them together and the string is tightening. His blue eyes look so dark in the shadows thrown by the light from the fire, his jaw is quivering. She finds that her lips are parted too, her heart is fluttering in her chest, and there is barely a handwidth between them now.

He breaks away from her gaze, and leans a hand against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire, with his head bowed.

She reaches out and gingerly touches his arm, “Husband,” she says, voice small, passion leeched to leave her but a lonely girl again, “you are greater than me in age, would you leave me here with no children to comfort me in my grief when you are gone?”

He covers his own eyes with his hand. Were he another man, he might be crying, she believes, so wrought he is.

“We are both sensible people,” she says, trying to compose herself, trying to make him understand, “I believe that we can discuss this reasonably.”

It is shame he feels, she knows now, a sense that he is less than a man. She herself has often felt—since her disgrace, since she came to this island and was useless in so many ways amongst such hardy, practical people—that she is less than a woman ought to be, but she cannot say this out loud to him, cannot share their equal shame, as he will not accept a reference to his injury in such a manner, nor such an allusion to his potency.

“Is it not true that what a husband and wife do in the bedchamber is sacred, and private,” she says, trying to gather her bravery, to take charge of his fears, as he has so often smoothed over hers this past year in his own gruff manner. “You have only ever treated me with courtesy, with kindness,”—however harsh that kindness was at times, however brusque his tone of voice—“I do not think that I shall feel shamed by our time together—my opinion of you, as a dutiful man, as a good husband, would not change; it has not been changed by the things I have learned we must do. Only a man that would not look at me, that turns away from me in my distress, would shame me.”

Her voice gets very small, she can hear a hitch that might be the precursor of tears and he must hear it too because he turns around and takes her face in his hands, a look of such agony on his own.

“My wife,” he says, thumbs brushing away the few tears that now fall, “my dear wife, I only wish to honour you, to care for you. I do not deserve you,” he admits and kisses her forehead, his lips trembling slightly against her skin.

He holds her to him and she allows herself to clutch her arms around his neck and hide her face in his broad shoulders, as one of his hands hovers over her back and then touches the nape of her neck very gently. There now, she thinks, I have been brave enough, it is his turn to lead.

But she must be brave a little longer still, for arranging the night in question is difficult. First because of the natural busyness of Christmas—with the presents to be wrapped, the parcels for the needy to be made, the visits to the almshouses, the food to be prepared, the house to decorate, the year's accounts to be settled, the many cards to write and answer, attendance at church—and then because he seems to be even busier than he should be, seems to be rushing too and fro with great alacrity, to be reticent. She fears, as Christmas comes and goes, as they celebrate New Year's day with a grand feast for the entire estate, that she may have to beg her husband, and she is ashamed at the very thought, but eventually, to her great relief, it is he that approaches her, but a few days after Twelfth Night.

“I shall visit with you tonight, if it suits you,” he says, hands clasped behind him, face stern, albeit with a very slight flush, she thinks, on his cheeks. She is sitting in the morning room embroidering and she almost drops her hoop at the shock of his sudden entrance and sudden words.

“It suits me well, thank you,” she says and she bows her head as he takes his leave for the day, her stomach swooping with nerves as she peeks up to watch him stalk away.

He is very large in form, her husband, and she used to be quite intimidated when he seemed to loom over her, although this was lessened the more she got to know him, the more she knew of his character; and yet now she is intimidated anew.

She places a hand over her middle and breaths deeply inside her tight corset, trying not to check the time on the clock on the mantelpiece, trying not to dwell on what is to come, when she has so many other things to achieve that day before the evening itself arrives.

 

 *

 

He leaves for the mainland the morning after they have consummated their marriage, leaving even before first light; as she had believed he might well do, overwhelmed with fear and shame for how her opinion of him might have been changed, her thoughts on him as a man. It is lucky that she foresaw this action, for otherwise she might think that it was herself who had disappointed, that she had not pleased him.

Dr Seaworth had told her of how she and her husband might lie together, in the same matter-of-fact way that he discussed everything, and she found that she barely blushed at the time and it was only later that her cheeks had burned with the pictures he had drawn in her mind, that she had stayed awake wondering and imagining.

It was not the manner their coupling must take that disturbed her thoughts, although perhaps it should have for a well-raised girl like herself—yet with all the things they have suffered and which have occurred here on the island: bereavements, illnesses, the great storm and its shipwreck; an illicit act like this seems very small in comparison—it was more the knowledge that she would get so very close to her husband, that only two layers of linen would stand between their chests, their shoulders and arms; that she would sit in his very _lap_ —

Whenever she had reached this thought, this picture, she had to shake herself or stand up and walk towards the window of her bedroom to let the outside air that sneaked through the cracks of the house cool her hot face. But the thoughts did not stop, even then. Her legs, around his hips; his _hands_ —

Yet all the imaginings in the world could not prepare her for how overwhelming it was; how _masculine_ he seemed there in the bed; his powerful form, his hands on her _hips_ —

It is not well of her to dwell on it when she knows that what they did is only an act for procreation, when she knows that it should not be enjoyed so for its own sake. But oh, the feeling of his heart beating near hers, the firmness of his grasp, his heavy breath glancing across her neck, the way they moved together as one, the noise he made at the close, the feeling of him _inside_ —

She is utterly undone at the thought, at the memories. Perhaps it is good that he has gone away for a while, lest she spend the first few days blushing hot—will she ever stop blushing, she wonders—knowing that he is sharing the same house as her, that he stands perhaps only a few rooms away.

For as much as she thought only to be sensible, to be rational about the act, she now knows that she was entirely unprepared, that this realm was so truly unknown to her. Perhaps he was only right to beg caution, right that they did not consummate their marriage earlier, for now she feels utterly useless, her mind dizzied and stretched thin.

If she did not know him so well in advance, know of his goodness and of the ways he had cared for her and his household, she might have been frightened by his intensity; the intensity of his gaze on hers, the way his early reticence seemed to melt away as soon he had entered the room and saw her sitting up in her bed by the light of the candles, waiting for him.

She had feared that his leg might still pain him in the act, despite what Dr Seaworth had assured, but he showed no signs of pain, only a sweet kind of _agony.  
_

She had not known there were new emotions, new feelings, to experience, to know. It would not have been like this with any other man, any other choice of husband, she is sure of it. The love she has felt for Stannis, the love she has tried to hide from herself because she had feared that it could not be returned, has only taken root and bloomed, as the flowers in a hothouse might, lush and colourful and new.

She had taken her hair down for him last night, wanting to be as pleasing as possible, because if she is not mistaken he has always loved her hair, and when she wakes the next morning, that glorious morning at the beginning of a new year ripe with possibility, her hair is curled about her shoulders, tangled about on the pillow, and she feels as if she is a mermaid washed ashore on the beach of some wondrous new island; as though, if she might linger just where she is, her handsome sailor would return to her and take her in his arms once again.

And that thought had, and dwelt upon, for she is still a young girl at heart, and one susceptible to romance, she shakes her head at her silliness and gets up from bed, ready to pin her hair back and dress in her warm woollen dress, and find some useful occupation for her time.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Did I manage to write 4.8k words of angst about Stannis wanting to have Sansa ride him in bed? why yes I did lol :D
> 
> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think! 
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/168903435177/sansa-has-found-more-happiness-than-she-dared-hope#notes)


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